


so let us melt, and make no noise

by nu_breed



Category: Black Sails
Genre: 4x10 spoilers, Angst-ridden gingers think too much, Canon Compliant, Fluff and Angst, London flashbacks, M/M, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2019-03-12 06:48:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13541961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nu_breed/pseuds/nu_breed
Summary: Thomas's hands had always been mesmerising.





	so let us melt, and make no noise

**Author's Note:**

> So this thing happened where I watched all 4 seasons of Black Sails in a week and fell madly in love with James McGraw and his Hamiltons and despite not writing in 3 and a half years, apparently all I needed was pirates to revive my fannish love.
> 
> Thanks to rivers_bend and cathybites for the beta. All remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> Title comes from John Donne's _A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning_

***

They have both changed immeasurably. But it is not Thomas's gait, nor the beard, nor his labourer's clothes that James notices first. It is his hands.

***

Thomas's hands had always been mesmerising. They were unmarred by sun and salt, so unlike James's own which were decorated with old rope burn scars and calluses. James's fingers were nothing special, but Thomas's were long and elegant. Always a passionate speaker, Thomas frequently used his hands to drive home his point of view. They were hard to ignore, his hands, and James had thought that they were almost delicate. It did not seem to James to be a word that one should use to refer to a man - delicate - but perhaps it was fitting that Thomas should be the exception to that particular rule. Thomas had been unlike any other man that James had ever met.

The first time that Thomas had brushed his fingers against James's, as they had pored over maps on the library table, it had made James flinch, though not immediately. It had taken a moment for James to register it: the long, slow glide of fingertips over the length of his hand. Only when Thomas's fingernail had caught on a particularly dry patch of skin had James pulled away.

"Whatever is the matter, James?" Thomas had asked, "did I startle you?"

"A little, my lord. I feared for a moment perhaps you had been stolen away and replaced by a woman, for your hands are far too soft for a gentleman." He had paused, the corner of his mouth upturned, "I suppose, though, that you cannot be blamed for that. You have, after all, never done a hard day's graft in your life."

"Ah, I see," Thomas had said, an eyebrow cocked, "it appears I cannot win. I am either a useless, spoiled noble or a woman. Gone are the days when you refused to insult me for fear of impropriety, _Lieutenant_."

They had both laughed, but there was something in the way that Thomas had uttered James's title that had made his cheeks flush and his belly ache in a way that that was not altogether unpleasant. While it had been a light-hearted incident borne of an accidental touch, something had sparked in James that lingered and felt anything but light. He could still feel the imprint of Thomas's fingers: smooth, feather-light, and completely unexpected while also entirely inevitable. The sense memory had still been present days later as he pinned Miranda against the wall in her bedroom, her petticoats up around her waist and his own indelicate fingers splayed on her creamy thighs. James had wondered if Miranda preferred his hands on her: rough and clumsy, or whether she preferred Thomas's: flawless and perfect. He allowed himself to imagine as he fucked her whether Thomas was as flawless all over, if his thighs were as smooth as hers, his mouth as pliant, his nails as perfectly shaped as they scratched lines down his back.

***

When Thomas finally kissed him, James had realised two things. Firstly, that he had been a fucking coward for not taking what he had been offered days, weeks, months earlier. And secondly, that he had been wrong about Thomas and just how delicate he was. Thomas's hands may have been flawless, his fingers elegant, but there was nothing delicate in the way he held James. His hands were large, experienced, and forceful. The way that Thomas held him, hands splayed on James's cheeks as he deepened the kiss, had felt like claiming. James had thought a great many things of Thomas, respected a great many things, but he had also underestimated him. Thomas was like a quill: the smoothness of his skin and the gentleness of his demeanour like feathers that masked something sharp and purposeful. Something that knew exactly what it wanted and would give no quarter.

From that point on it appeared to James as if Thomas had made a decision to not only remain ungloved as much as possible in James's presence, but to find any excuse to distract him with those damned hands. In his meetings, Thomas had always had the habit of tapping a finger on his mouth to show he was thinking through an idea. Now though, he would do so in a far more deliberate manner, resting the pad of his finger on the swell of his lower lip as he listened to Peter's latest proposal over dinner, his mouth slightly open, his eyes fixed on James. James would have no idea what Peter was saying, so thoroughly distracted was he by this maddening man and his sinful fucking mouth. Later, when Miranda and Peter were sipping sherry in the library he would drag Thomas into his study, unbutton himself and hiss, "Do you mean to drive me mad, my Lord?" Thomas would always answer by falling to his knees and sucking James until he came, James biting down hard on his lower lip for fear of crying out.

***

Thomas's hands are no longer flawless. When he lays them on James's face, they are rough, the abraded skin catching on James's stubble. These are not the hands of James's pampered nobleman, but of a labourer who has seen the sharp end of a machete far too many times. Thomas has aged, flecks of grey in his beard and the leathery complexion of a man who spends too much time in the sun. When James has dreamed of this moment it has always been the Thomas he knew in London, thin and immaculately-dressed, skin like porcelain. He has changed, he has aged, he has been broken apart and put back together and yet he still looks exactly the same. He is still the most beautiful thing James has ever seen.

The room that Thomas sleeps in is small, bare except for a single bed, a small bookcase and a chest of drawers.

"It isn't bad," James says, sitting down next to Thomas on the bed. "I've seen worse."

"Me too."

James turns towards Thomas and presses their foreheads together, his gut twisting. "I'm sorry," he whispers.

Thomas touches him then, strokes James's forehead, his fingers ghosting over cheekbones, lips and chin. It's almost as if he is trying to learn the surface of James's face again and his touch is so welcome, so familiar, that it makes James ache. It makes him think of long, lazy afternoons in bed, of stolen kisses, and of what they cost.

"I don't want to stop touching you," Thomas breathes into his neck, his hands gripping James's shoulders, "I feel like if I do you'll disappear."

"Thomas," James says, and it sounds so good in the almost-silence of the room that he has to say it again, to let it curl around his ears like it hasn't been more than a decade since he has dared to utter that name without it threatening to shred him from the inside or making him want to burn the entire fucking world down around him. "Thomas. Thomas, we should…"

"Talk. You want to talk?" Thomas pulls away, lays his hands in his lap. Even battered and sun-damaged they still look perfect. James reaches out and runs his thumb over a thin wrist.

"Actually, I'd rather do anything other than talk," he says, "I don't even know where to fucking start, Thomas."

His gut twists at the thought of how to explain it - any of it - if Miranda was here she would know what to say, she always knew exactly what to say and how to say it. But Miranda is in the fucking ground and Thomas is all that's left and James doesn't want to tell him any of it even though her absence is like a brick around his neck.

Thomas leans in again so close that James can feel his breath, warm and familiar, "I don't know where to start either."

James kisses Thomas then, slow and deliberate, his tongue pushing gently between Thomas's lips. When James tries to deepen the kiss, Thomas pulls away slightly, avoiding James's mouth. This is not like the kiss they shared outside, full of relief and joy, but more akin to the kisses they used to share, when Thomas would drive James almost mad with want. They play this game for a minute, James chasing Thomas's mouth with his own and Thomas pretending to stop, moving almost close enough for James to kiss him every time before pulling away again, laughing breathlessly. James finally grabs him, his hands framing Thomas's face, holding him still.

"Fucking tease," he whispers, bites Thomas's lip, and kisses him hard.

Thomas moans, and it sounds so fucking good. James knows he should pull away and tell him everything: Miranda, that fucking traitorous prick Peter Ashe, his father, all of it. But Thomas always had a way of making resistance feel completely pointless and when he crawls into James's lap, James just gives in like he always has, lets him lose himself in Thomas's pleasure, his perfect fucking hands, and the warm heat of his mouth.

Thomas swears under his breath and unfastens James's breeches. He shoves a hand inside his undergarments and strokes James with such precision that James almost can't believe it's been so long since they've done this. Thomas's touch is just as it always was: urgent, intense, and addictive. James wants to do the same, wants to get his hands on Thomas but there isn't enough room to manoeuver so instead he lowers his head to Thomas's chin, scrapes his teeth over stubble and groans against his skin, "So good. So good, my lord."

"I'm no-one's lord anymore. I haven't been for a long time," Thomas says, and it would be almost convincing where it not for the tremor in his voice. His strokes get faster, more erratic. 

"You are mine," James says. He licks a long, slow line from Thomas's clavicle up to the hollow of his throat. "And exactly who are you trying to convince? I've seen how hard it makes you when I call you that. _My lord_."

"Christ," Thomas groans, and pulls back a little, pushing his own breeches and undergarments down and pulling James towards him. James reaches out to touch Thomas with trembling fingers. It has been so long since he touched another cock that wasn't his own and Thomas's is exactly as James had remembered, long and thick and so receptive to his touch. 

Thomas has always been responsive in bed and that hasn't changed one whit. The minutest touch, James's thumb brushing over the head of his cock is still enough to make Thomas moan and thrust his hips forward like a tart. If it weren't for the fact that James was so close to spending, he would draw this out. There never was anything quite like seeing Thomas beg for more and James wants to pull away, to get Thomas on his hands and knees and remind him just how wrecked, how undone James can make him feel. And that's all it takes - that image, borne of remembrance along with Thomas's experienced, rough hand on his cock is too much to endure. James bites his lip, and it's all over, waves of pleasure hitting him from toes to groin and spending himself all over his fully-clothed chest.

James can tell from the noises Thomas is making that he is close. He speeds up his strokes, his other hand clutching Thomas's hair and pulling him close to kiss him, hard, frantic, his tongue fucking Thomas's mouth. James swallows Thomas's moans as he thrusts his hips forward and comes, his stains adding to the disparate patterns on James's black shirt.

"Oh dear," Thomas says, "your shirt appears to be somewhat ruined. Sorry."

It seems almost poetic, really. Soon he will have a different uniform to wear: the clothes of a labourer that will soak up the dirt and the sun. The black shirt will disappear along with all it represents, a seemingly invincible man constructed from grief and pain. Thomas holds him there, hands bracketing his face, and James McGraw allows himself to truly smile for the first time in years.


End file.
